” He paused with a sense of ineptitude. But I expect him back every minute. He told her something about music, the great world outside. I must go perhaps in all the rooms. “Maybe someday I can look them up again, just to see how they are doing. Oh, the beautiful books! Romance, adventure, love stories! She gathered up the books in her arms and cuddled them, as a mother might have cuddled a child. But when he looked again, there she was! "I don't understand," he said, finally. Yes, of course. "My good friend, Owen Wood,—Heaven preserve him!—is still living.
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